


Earthquaker

by Lady_Talla_Doe



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Implied Relationships, John has a lot of feelings, M/M, Recovery, Slice of Life, Slow Romance, alternative universe - marcus lives, canon typical injury, the discovery of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-27 14:57:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21394063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Talla_Doe/pseuds/Lady_Talla_Doe
Summary: John recovers from his injuries under Winston's watchful eye, and learns that Marcus survived being shot.
Relationships: Helen Wick/John Wick, John Wick & Winston, Marcus/John Wick
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *dives into the land of self indulgence*  
I'm on a dafoe movie binge

* * *

* * *

The words didn’t penetrate the first time. When the rage was gone, all that was left was a fog.

“_Marcus…. Spital” _

John lifted his head, looking unfocused up at Winston. He was kneeling in front on John, hand resting on the arm of his chair, just beside John’s bruised fingers.

“Jonathan. John, you must wake up.”

“I’m not asleep,” John muttered, but tried to focus. He was safe in the Continental, he could finally rest- what could be so important that Winston wouldn’t simply let him rest?

Winston reached up, and rested his hand very carefully on John’s shoulder. He peered at him, searching his face for a sign he was listening.

“He’s out of surgery, John. He is alive.”

A small shake.

“Marcus is alive.”

~*~

John would have loved to say he went immediately. But it was the middle of the night, and Marcus was in the ICU; he’d been shot eight times, two of which had shredded organs. It had taken twelve hours of surgery, and likely knocked of more then one of the sharpshooter’s nine lives, but Marcus was _stable._

And John was a mess. The only reason he was still functioning was because of the pills he’d taken at the beginning. He’d been shot at, stabbed, his hands were a _mess—_when Winston had told him, he’d barely managed to stagger to his feet, before dropping in a dead faint into his old friend’s arms.

John had woken in his hotel suit, pleasantly buzzed off of whatever was in the IV beside his bed. He didn’t move immediately, blinking slowly at the ceiling. A wet snuffling noise, and his bed dipped; the dog he’d taken on spur of the moment walked up his bed to sniff wetly at his face, its tail thumping his hip.

“Hey there…” John greeted, patting the white snippet on its chest clumsily. He wasn’t even sure if the dog was a boy or girl- he was sort of hoping for a boy, because then it would feel less like he was replacing Daisy.

A soft knock at the door, and a pause- John found he was too tired to raise his voice, content to let his visitor enter uninvited. Winston stepped inside, quick to close the door to prevent the dog from getting into the hall. Not that it seemed to be very interested, sniffing Winston’s shins from the edge of the bed.

“Ah good, you’re awake. Can’t say you’re in very good shape, but a little rest and you’ll be right as rain.” He smiled warmly as he sat on the edge of the bed, not seeming to mind the attentions of the young dog.

“Jonathan,” Winston said carefully, “Do you remember what I told you last night?”

John slid his hand down Dog’s head, rumbling his- he was pretty sure it was a he- ear between his mostly numb fingers. He was pretty sure Dog was soft, his grey fur looked very soft. John abruptly shook his head, the memories of the previous night floating back to him through the mist of very god painkillers.

“You said Marcus survived.” He said quietly, looking at Winston. Something in his chest relaxed when he nodded.

“Survived by the skin of his teeth, but he’s through the worst and breathing on his own. They expect he’ll wake up tomorrow or the next day.” Winston stood, looking down on John with a stern expression. “You’ll be recovering here until he wakes up. I had things brought you’re your companion.”

He paused, seeming to consider his words carefully.

“Please John, don’t throw away this chance.”

And then he left, the door closing silently behind him. John returned to staring up at the ceiling, trying to sort through what he was feeling. _ I could rest_. There was nothing else that needed doing. He could simply close his eyes, and rest.

So that’s what he did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus and john recover slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes you just gotta write a bit of soft slice of life.

* * *

* * *

Two days passed in quiet. John slept for most of it, helped along by the gentle sedatives and painkillers. He took medical advice, and stayed in bed- the farthest he walked was to the washroom, and the only other place he rested was the chair in front of the window. Winston had dropped off a book, and when he wasn’t sleeping, John read it.

Something about wizards, he didn’t quite follow, but it had been very popular a year ago. Time passed, and no news came of Marcus’s condition. But he had decided no news was good news, right at the beginning, so he didn’t worry. They were cut from a similar cloth; he had no doubt that unless made to rest, Marcus would be trying to check himself out and go home. This limbo was better for both of them.

He named the grey dog after a character in the novel; he thought perhaps the human name would meet the approval of Winston, who simply raised a brow at it, and didn’t comment.

Time passed.

~*~

it was nearly five days post surgery before Marcus woke up. John was no longer sitting around his room in pajamas; he had started getting dressed in the morning yesterday, although today was the first time he’d dared to try to bend over and put on socks. It had hurt an unreasonable amount, given the knife had missed everything vital.

It was only fair, after everything he’d put his body through.

John found the grief was tempered. He would have thought he would drown in it when left alone with his thoughts but (and he was sure if he expressed the sentiment, no one would be surprised) the solid three days of violence had calmed something. He still felt like there was broken glass lodged in his chest, like the pieces ground together every time he moved, or breathed. Like something vital to his everyday function had broken, and although he had seemed to find a way around it, it was still sitting there. Broken.

But he was also beginning to understand why people said grief would lessen.

Helen had been his _world_. He’d built an identity around her, crafted a sense of self that used her as a pillar. Everything that had happened- every senseless death- had been flowers lain at the foot of her grave. His tribute to her, in a world that refused to let him fade away without her.

His rage had been a fire, and now that it had burned its self out, John was left wondering if he would be allowed to plant in the fire-path left in his grief’s wake.

There were more things he could loose- he hadn’t realized that before, while he was deep in his despair. He still loved Helen, would always love her, but there was room in his heart-places he had planted other gardens, to people before her. Gardens that, if he had a lot of luck, he could tend to again.

~*~

He went to visit Marcus on the sixth day.

He was sleeping when John entered, truly asleep. His face was too pale- perhaps it was the lights, washing out his skin, or the injuries taxing his system. But Marcus looked fragile, propped carefully among the pillows, his brown hair fluffy and unkept in a way he never would have allowed under normal circumstances.

John sat down in the chair at his bedside, moving quietly but not trying the be silent. He didn’t wish to disturb Marcus, but being too quiet would be almost as bad as being too loud.

He sat in silence for some time, watching the monitor and listening to his slightly strained breathing.

“John,” Marcus said. His voice was rough; John stood, and poured him a glass of water, returning to his seat. He offered it silently, and waited for Marcus to sip at the straw.

“Marcus,” he greeted, when he was done, and the cup was waved away.

“You’re still in the city. I’m surprised.” His grey eyes were clear, despite the carefully measured morphine drip. John suspected he’d asked to have his dose turned down.

John shrugged. “You were shot.” There wasn’t much more to say.

They had never been the type to have long conversations. Simply working in the same field covered a lot of things that they might talk about; John was quiet, and Marcus was okay with long silences. It had been the groundwork for their friendship.

Sometimes a person just needed to sit in silence with someone, and be left to their demons. Marcus had understood that.

John hesitated, then reached out, and carefully fixed Marcus’s hair.

“They should give you a brush.”

A soft snort. “I don’t think they’re worried about my hair.”

John nodded absently, tucking his hands into his lap.

“I’ll bring one next time.”

~*~

_Next time_ turned out to be tomorrow, when Marcus was moved from the ICU to a normal recovery room- private, with its own washroom and TV. There was a chair that could fold out into a bed near the window, a curtesy for family of patients. John placed the blue flowers on the window, beside the two other vases. Red-flag irises, and a vase of blue hydrangea. John brushed the red flags with his fingertips.

“From Winston. They’re pretentious, I know.” Marcus looked over the top of his paper. His glasses sat on the edge of his nose, simple wire frames that looked new.

John touched the flowers again, admiring the gold at the centre.

“Why are they pretentious?” he asked, as he brought a chair over to the side of Marcus’s bed, placing his paper bag at the blankets by his feet. Marcus flicked his paper to the side, looking at the bag, and ignored John’s question.

“Can’t eat solid food yet.”

“It’s a smoothie. The doctors said it was okay.”

He hummed, turning the page.

“There’s also a novel. Winston lent it to me. It’s called Harry Potter.” John continued.

Marcus put his paper down, flipping down a corner to save his page, and folded it up. He held a hand out, and John lifted the bag, handing it to him.

“I’ve read this damn paper three times, I’ll read anything at this point.” He turned the book over, bag rustling. John pulled the bottled smoothie out, setting it on the nightstand, and folded the bag as Marcus read the back.

“Weren’t these a bunch of movies?” asked Marcus, setting it down and removing his glasses. He tucked them into the breast pocket of his robe.

“Yeah, a few years ago.”

The afternoon passed in quiet, unhurried conversation, as John claimed the paper, and Marcus read the book. Inside John’s chest, one of the grating pieces slowly fused back up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a soft conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been fun writing this, and experimenting with style a bit. I hope everyone has enjoyed it!

* * *

* * *

They healed.

It took time, and predictably, Marcus was not an easy patient. He checked himself out of the hospital three weeks after he was shot, grouching at anyone who suggested perhaps another week would do him well.

“You should stay, rest some more.” John said, although he folded the robe he was handed, and tucked it neatly into the overnight bag.

Marcus emerged from the bathroom, full dressed but still in slippers. “I can rest in my own bed. I don’t need to be here anymore, and I’ll put you on your ass if you try arguing with me about it.” He glared sternly at John, who held up his hands in surrender. Marcus may be injured, but he wasn’t helpless- if home made it easier for him to stay put and heal, then he wouldn’t fight him over it.

Marcus tugged his shoes on, stubbornly waving John away even when his face greyed, and a fine dotting of sweat appeared on his brow. Three weeks wasn’t long to heal from eight gun shot wounds and the loss of a kidney.

Wordlessly, he lifted Marcus’s bag, slinging it over his shoulder before he could protest.

“Do you want the flowers?” asked John, instead.

Marcus shakes his head. “If I know Winston, the bastard has probably filled my apartment by now. Leave them for the nurses.”

But as he turns to go, Marcus picks up the small vase of blue delphiniums that John had placed on the counter when he arrived.

“Okay, lets go.”

~*~

The season changed slowly, time sliding away. They spent many of the cold winter months tucked away inside; John was a regular visitor at Marcus’s apartment, and he brought Dudley with him. The dog has a favorite chair he’d picked out early on, before John had time to give him training to keep him off the furniture, and now whenever he visited there was a blanket thrown over it when he arrived.

Dudley scrambled up on the expensive chair, and set his large head down on the arm, watching them as John sets down a bag of groceries on the counter. Marcus is in the living room with his physical therapist, so John sets up the juicer and goes about it without disturbing him.

He had the juice in cups, and had set lunch up on plates when Marcus’s physical therapist walked past, nodding briefly before disappearing out the door. John took the cue, and brought lunch into the dining room.

Marcus looked a lot less grey in the face then he had in the beginning. It had been at the hospital’s insistence that he get physical therapy to help him maintain

“You brought lunch. That’s very kind, I didn’t expect it.” Marcus said by way of greeting, taking one of the plates from John, and sitting down across from him at the table. The curtains were drawn against the cold sky, so john set his plate down and opened them before joining Marcus.

“Thursdays are physical therapy. I thought you might like stay in after. We don’t need to,” he added, shrugging at Marcus’s look. “You’ve just been tired lately. She seems to have you doing a lot.”

There’s a lingering look, then Marcus bends his head, and picks up his silverware, starting on his meal.

“That’s very kind, thank you.”

The meal is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Dudley brings his bone to have at Marcus’s feet, and their conversation passes easily into other things.

~*~

Spring brings change. A desire for things in his home that are not just a reflection of his life with Helen, and now without her. John stops at the hardware store for something else entirely, but small blue flowers in a pot catch his eyes. The garden at his home consisted of gravel, and carefully cared for grass, but his yard was large.

Perhaps it was time he started making the lonely house his own.

~*~

“Tell me again why I’m helping you?” Marcus grunted, as he dropped another bag of fertilizer into the trunk. There was pink in his cheeks now, a robustness to his demeanour; he had healed well. John held the second cart with on hand, bracing the first one with his foot so it didn’t roll away.

“Never said you had to. Just thought it might be nice.” John shrugged, although it was more of a short hunch and straighten, with his arms full of plants.

Marcus paused, and gave him one of those slow, critical looks. Eventually, he turned back to the cart, and lifted the last bag of soil into the trunk.

“Guess you’re right.” He reached across the buggy to take a hold of the teetering flat of irises. They were short, and of the smaller variety, their heads bobbing with every motion.

Marcus had tried to explain that you don’t buy the plant in full bloom, you buy the ones with only buds, but John had been determined. He wanted the garden to look like a garden by the time they were done today.

It had been a long time since Marcus had done anything as terribly domestic as planting, but he found himself enjoying it as he steered John to the grasses, and the bulbs. Things to fill it out, and things to come in later. They had a king’s ransom of plants to fit into the pack of the car, and by Marcus’s insistence, a fair amount of herbs.

He balanced the small bay tree on his leg, then grunted and placed it on the ground before reaching up to close the trunk. It would ride with him in the front, the only place left. John was already in the car, and moved the rosemary he had left on Marcus’s seat, holding it between him and the steering wheel as Marcus buckled up, the short tree between his feet.

“You know,” said Marcus conversationally, “You’re going to get tired and hire people after you realize how hard planting is.”

With the doors closed, the care smelt of green things. He ran his fingers over the rosemary’s needle-like leaves, and held them to his nose absently, john starting the car.

“Perhaps,” was all john said, with the air that it wasn’t the complete thought. Marcus let it slide, winding down his window as they pulled out of the parking lot.

It was a silent drive, but the comfortable sort of silence he could rely on John for.

~*~

“I told you to buy less,” Marcus handed John one of the two sweating glasses of cold water, retreating back to his lawn chair as John crouched in the dirt, knees getting muddy from his town up lawn. They had discovered the underground sprinkler system, although thankfully not by bursting it.

“How did you think it stayed green?” Marcus had groused, but John had only shrugged.

“Never thought about it,” he admitted later.

_Of course not_. You don’t question things when they’re working. Only why they aren’t anymore. John had been in bliss, married and happily ignorant to how his well manicured lawn stayed so green.

He kicked off his shoes, peeling off his socks with only a slight wince. He was getting used to the pain, learned to breath through it and let it flow away. The grass felt good between his toes; whoever had been taking care of it, left it the perfect length. _Hopefully his gardeners won’t be offended at the mess he’s made of the place._

Flowers popped up in bright flashes of colour, planted slightly too close together, so they made jagged slashes in the churned dirt. There hadn’t been a plan going in, but John seemed to be working off some idea; the herbs all went in one place, growing around the base of the rosemary and bay, and that was a thick round plot with stones laid roughly in to border it. It actually didn’t look half bad.

The flowers however, were an absolute mess. Most had survived the crowded trip from the nursery, although some had a sad tilt to them that spoke ill of their pretty colours lasting more then a day or two.

He seemed to be determined to have each flower grow in its own patch, separated by the tall grasses Marcus had insisted upon being added to the mix. He’d helped plant the herbs, and perhaps it was his influence that made that part of the garden seem less strictly defined, but his body had protested the kneeling required after a while, and Marcus had retired to the lawn furniture at John’s insistence.

It felt so strangely domestic, sitting in the sunlight, with the rustle of the plants and John’s shovel digging through the dirt, everything quiet. He could hear his grunts of effort as he dug, but mostly Marcus was left to his own thoughts.

~*~

A soft hand on his shoulder, fingers curling warmly against the side of his neck. He blinked up at John, surprised.

“You fell asleep.” Said John, smiling. It was a minx of a look, saying everything John didn’t.

_Like an old man_, his grin poked playfully.

Marcus groused, shaking his head. “I am not old.”

“Of course not.” A slower, warmer smile.

It was likely inevitable. Like water wearing away at stone, drop by drop, carving a place for itself. His hand was on john’s cheek, brushing the smudge of dirt from it, and he had done nothing to deserve the way john tilted his face into his touch.

His mouth tasted like it always had, and when John threaded his hand through Marcus’s hair, he felt dirt rub against his skin, smelt the wet earth when he breathed through his nose. John sat on the edge of the lawn chair, leaning over him, but Marcus didn’t feel boxed in; he slid his hand along John’s ribs, rested it over where he knew the scar was. Sighed contentedly against his lips.

“The garden can wait,” suggested John, and Marcus didn’t mind the grit of dirt in his hair, under his hands.

He nodded.

“The garden can wait.”


End file.
